


The Grass Ain’t Always Greener (but in this case, it is)

by Lecavayay, verbaeghe



Series: Nowhere, Oklahoma [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Farming Mishaps, Happily Ever After, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Tampa Bay Lightning, gratuitous cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10054136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecavayay/pseuds/Lecavayay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbaeghe/pseuds/verbaeghe
Summary: Fate is sometimes a broken down car in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well this 5 minute chat fic sure did turn into a monster, eh? Please enjoy the labors of our love for these two idiots (and forgive any typos you inevitably come across).

Braydon should’ve been on the road seventeen minutes ago.

As it stands, he pauses over his briefcase and looks out the window of his high-rise office, debating on if he needs any more of the reports that are scattered around his desk. He’s distracted by a small flock of birds that twist and turn in formation before disappearing below his line of sight. He blinks back to focus and decides he's as ready as he's going to be, snapping his briefcase closed.

He settles back in front of his laptop and checks his emails one last time. He groans at the absurd number of new messages sitting in his inbox and just, can’t. They’ll have to wait.

The phone on his desk rings as he's snapping his laptop bag closed and seeing that it's his boss on the inter-office system, he picks up.

"Coburn."

"Ah, good. Glad I caught you. I have a few last minute things of note before you leave for Dallas."

“Sure,” he says through gritted teeth.

His boss drones on, going over some nitpicky details while Braydon silently nods and jots down what he deems most important. He waits once he's hung up, half expecting the phone to ring again, but the clock on the wall flips over to 3:22 without incident and he makes a break for it.

He grabs his laptop bag and his briefcase, speeding toward the elevator at the end of the floor with his office keys between his teeth. Someone beats him to pressing the down button and takes his briefcase from him.

“Thought you’d already left,” Ben says with a smile.

“If Ken would ever shut up, I would’ve been gone on time,” he hisses, pocketing his keys properly.

“Nervous?”

The elevator pings and they both join the woman that's already riding down. “Anxious. You know how I am about traveling.”

Ben laughs. “It’s only a nine hour drive.”

“Nine and a half.”

The woman gets off on floor ten and Braydon re-situates his laptop bag, leaning against the far wall of the elevator and wishing the air conditioning would kick on.

“It’ll be fine,” Ben says, always reassuring. “You’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

Braydon feels like he  _is_ breathing, but takes a few deep inhales for good measure. “Don’t let Ken do anything crazy while I’m gone.”

“The office is safe with me.”

The elevator announces their arrival to the lobby and Braydon takes his briefcase back from Ben before rushing for the valet stand.

“And tell Jared to answer my texts!” Ben shouts after him. “I know he’s gonna be there!”

Braydon waves a hand in acknowledgment as he pushes into the afternoon heat, silently begging his car to be ready for him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Coburn," the valet says cheerfully, tossing Braydon's keys at him.

Braydon’s so relieved they have his Audi R8 waiting he could cry. He offers the valet half a smile and a ten. “Afternoon, Ed. Thanks.”

He shoves everything in his hands into the backseat alongside his suitcase and gym bag and settles into the driver’s seat. His mind fully shifts to Dallas and the presentations he'll have to make as he pulls out into pre-rush hour traffic.  

//

Going through his talking points for the day one roundtable for a third time, he notices all of his radio station presets are static. He sighs, reaching out to fidget with the dial to no avail, turning the whole thing off. He really should’ve remembered to fix his credit card info with Sirius.

Looking around at all of the nothing around him, he’s surprised that 'the middle of nowhere' is so close to the city. It's always seemed like thousands of miles away from his ivory tower in the heart of downtown.

There’s a house at the top of a hill in the distance and it’s the only building he's seen in a while. Everything else is herds of cows and horses and more cows. Fields of corn and possibly wheat, something that’s small and leafy green that’s close to the ground.

Oh, and to change things up, there's more cows.

“What’s a guy gotta do to see a goat around here?” he asks the passing cows. Shockingly, they don’t offer him an answer.

His phone rings  – his boss with questions about a page layout he put together last week.

"Yes, mhmm, right. I can get you those edits when I get to Dallas. Mhmm. Of course. No problem.”

He tosses his phone on the passenger seat and goes back to trying to find something on the radio that isn't static or country. The only thing that comes in is  _old_ country, which is even worse.  

Then, as if deciding that things weren’t bad enough, his car suddenly makes an atrocious pop and half of the idiot lights on his dashboard come on.

"Shit." He pulls to the shoulder as the engine starts to smoke.  

Braydon gets out of his car, staring at it in utter disbelief as he calls AAA, looking around for a mile-marker in the fading sunlight while he's on hold. He’s so caught up in his task that he startles when the absolutely gigantic pick-up rolls to a stop behind his car, headlights blinding.  

"Car trouble?" the driver asks, hopping down from the cab.

He blinks and throws his hand up over his eyes to try and see the guy better. In what universe do people actually stop to help someone on the side of the road? What is happening right now? Braydon shifts his gaze between the truck and the driver, unsure what to do in this particular situation.

"Uh yeah, I'm on the phone with AAA right now. I'll be fine." The stranger doesn’t move to leave, so Braydon adds a pointed, “Thanks.”

The guy has a smirky little smile and the tight white shirt he's wearing is smudged with some dirt, thin enough that Braydon can see the cut of quite a lot of muscles. "It'll take a solid hour before they get out here, and that’s being generous. Faster to call my buddy in the next town over. He's got a shop."  

"That's, uh, that's really okay. I can wait."

The guy shrugs and points to the hood of the car. "Mind if I take a look?"

And Braydon's first thought is  _"Kind of, yeah."_ His car is not some farm truck. It's expensive. And precious to him. "Do you, uh, work with cars?"

"I dabbled when I was younger. Just wanna look before I call Witty so he knows what's coming."

Braydon rolls his eyes. "I can just wait for AAA, really."

The guy raises his eyebrows, inclines his head toward the hood.  

Braydon gives in and pops it, watching this perfect stranger's biceps  _bulge_ when he lifts the hood, propping it on the stand absently. Braydon can’t really help but take the rest of him in and Jesus Christ it's like he walked straight out of soft farm boy porn. Hair curling around his ears and poking out of the bottom of his worn, backwards ballcap, the cut of his scruffy jaw, the curve of his shoulders, and his fucking belt buckle looking larger than Texas.

"Doesn't look too bad," the guy announces, like he knows what he's talking about. "You got somewhere to be?"

He thinks about the hotel he booked in Tulsa for tonight, about the extra couple of days he took off, how he'd planned to spend them around the hotel pool in Dallas with his phone turned off. "Not 'til Monday. I guess."

"Great! I bet Witty could fix you up tonight, pretty much everywhere else’ll be about closed by now. And I'm telling you, he's good. And he'll give you a fair price."  

Braydon's still on hold, the tinny music circling around to the beginning for the thousandth time. "Listen, this car is my baby. I appreciate your help but I'd rather ju--."

"You think I let  _my_ baby go to someone I don't trust?" He points at his truly massive truck. "Hang up the phone."

"You can't just bully a stranger on the side the road like this."

"I'm being friendly," he argues.

"Aggressively."

The guy shrugs and wipes his hands off on his jeans, drops the hood. "Aggressively friendly, huh? There's worse things I could be."  

And Braydon thinks the guy really means it. He hangs up. "Okay."

"Yeah?" The guy's face brightens like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "I'll call him up!"

Braydon paces next to his poor, broken-down car, fiddling with his phone. It buzzes – an email from a coworker – and pings – something from Twitter. He clears all the notifications without even looking at them.

"He's heading out with the tow truck right now. Should be here in about twenty."

Braydon stuffs his phone in his pocket. "Great, thanks."

"I'm Slater, by the way," the guy says, offering a hand.  

He takes it. "Braydon."

//

"Wow. This is a nice car," is the first thing Witty says when he shows up with the tow.

"Thanks," Braydon replies, his voice flat. He looks over at Slater, asking with his eyes if he's sure about this Witty guy, but Slater's beaming at the whole situation so he huffs a sigh and lets it all happen.  

He feels a little better when Witty’s competent in getting his car loaded up onto the flatbed in the glow of Slater’s headlights.

"Why don't you ride with me," Slater suggests when Braydon starts towards the tow truck.

"Um...?" Braydon looks between Slater and his car.

"Witty keeps the cab of his truck a mess." Slater hikes a hip along with his thumb over at the humongous truck that he'd rolled up in. "I, on the other hand, clean mine up."

“It’s true,” Witty offers. “You’re better off with him.”

Braydon relents with another sigh and follows Slater over to his black monstrosity, not at all surprised at the country music blaring out of the speakers when Slater turns the engine over. He narrows his eyes when Slater doesn't turn it down but doesn't say anything, instead busying himself with rolling up the window on his side halfway in an effort to save his hair at least somewhat.

They aren’t five minutes into the ride before Braydon starts to wonder if he's about to become a missing person while his car is sold off for parts.

The sun’s taken a sharp nosedive for the horizon by the time they turn off the highway, the fading blue of the sky mixing with streaks of pink and orange as they arrive safely at Witty’s shop after six and a half very loud, very country songs.

The shop is small and looks a little run down. There's one sad little pile of tires outside; Braydon isn’t sure if they’re for sale or just decoration. Inside isn't much better, nothing on the counter but a pot of coffee that resembles sludge and a couple of Styrofoam cups covered in a thin coat of dust.  

" _At least they're upside down_ ," he thinks to himself while also wondering just how long they've been sitting there.  

The lights are buzzing overhead, casting a harsh white glow on everything, and he notes the three chairs in the waiting area don't match one another  _or_ the empty table in the center of them.

“This is going to take me at least a few hours and I don't really keep anything on hand to entertain customers.” Witty doesn't seem the least bit concerned with that fact. “Probably better off grabbing your stuff and going back to the farm with Slater. I’ll call him when I’m done.”

Braydon opens his mouth to protest but Slater beats him to it. “I’ve at least got better coffee than him.”

It sounds like a long-running joke, especially when Witty turns towards the garage muttering about “better things to do” and how they can “see themselves out”. Slater shakes his head, laughing quietly to himself as he steers Braydon towards the front door.

He guesses he’s going to the farm.

Getting back in the truck, Braydon startles and almost drops his laptop and gym bag into the floorboard when the country music blares back to life. Frowning when Slater rolls his window all the way down again, he gives in to the idea that this is where his life is going and tries to ignore the wind whipping at his face.  

He diverts his attention to his phone, scrolling through the 7 new emails and all of the twitter notifications before opening Facebook to see a friend request from Greg, the guy he went on a date with last weekend. He sighs. It so wasn’t that great of a date and even seeing the stupid ‘ _Greg McKegg has sent you a friend request!_ ’ is making his eye twitch. He can’t be with someone with a name like that. He backs out of the app and locks his phone again.

Braydon looks up when Slater asks, "So, where are ya from?"

"St. Louis," Braydon replies without his usual aversion to small-talk.

"Mmm," Slater hums, pondering the information a bit. "I have a couple of buddies from St. Louis and they don't talk like you."

"St. Louis is where I live; I'm not actually from there, I guess." Braydon shifts in his seat a little bit. “I'm from Canada."

"That makes more sense." Slater nods his head like he's agreeing with something and Braydon thinks that's the end of it, but he follows up with another question. "How'd you end up in St. Louis then?"

"My friend Ben talked me into taking a job there," Braydon answers easily. “And it’s been ten years now. So I guess I like it there.” He’s surprised he’s not more annoyed with the current line of questioning. Then again, looking at Slater, maybe it's obvious why.

"Oh, my favorite song!" Slater exclaims suddenly, leaning over and twisting the volume up even higher. Braydon makes a face at the vocalist's apparent drawl and Slater laughs before launching into his own version of carpool karaoke.

" _...I wanna love you and hold you tight, spin you around on some old dance floor. Act like we never met before, for fun_.  _‘Cause you’re the one I want, you’re the one need, baby, if I was a king...”_

It isn't the worst singing voice that Braydon's ever heard and something in his face must have changed, because Slater's pausing to ask if he knows the song.

"Nah, never heard it." Braydon thinks Slater looks offended, so he shrugs in apology which earns him a quick little smile.

 _“...You're the rock in my roll. You're good for my soul, it's true. I'm head over boots for you._ "

Slater turns from the main road onto what is hardly much more than a gravel path. They hit one pothole - is it a pothole if it's just dirt and gravel? - too many and Braydon scrambles to grip at the door, wondering how much longer he’ll be tossed around the truck’s cab.

The headlights illuminate a little house with a peeling blue door not a moment too soon.

Even in the dying light, Braydon can see there are little yellow flowers blooming under the front window, rocking chairs on the front porch, and a big, classic-looking barn off in the distance. They roll to a stop next to a tractor that makes the black monstrosity of Slater’s truck look normal-sized.

“How long does it take you to mow the grass?” he blurts out as Slater shuts off the ignition.

Slater snickers. “I have some help with that. Come on in, I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

Braydon follows him out of the cab and up the porch steps, holding the screen open while Slater shoulders the door in. To Braydon’s shock, the front hall is plastered in terrible wallpaper: off-white with tiny pink flowers everywhere.

“I’ve got curtains in the kitchen to match,” Slater says with a smirk.

“You lose a bet?”

“My grandma did it."

Ah yes, Braydon good job on being an asshole. The kitchen is small, almost too cramped for two people to be standing around in it. Braydon keeps his mouth shut as Slater fills the pot with water from the sink under the little window with the flower curtains tied back.

“There we go,” Slater says at the first drip of coffee. “Help yourself when it’s done. Mugs are up top. ” He points to a high cabinet. “There’s some fancy creamer in the fridge from my mom and sugar in the jar. I’ve gotta check on the barn real quick but take your shoes off. Make yourself comfortable.”  He starts to head out of the kitchen, but pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Answer when the phone rings. It should be Witty.”

Braydon doesn’t gape at the cream-colored house phone hanging on the wall, but it’s a near miss. “Okay, sure. Thanks,” he replies as Slater turns for the door.

He waits until he hears the slam of the screen before he opens up the cabinet. He smiles at the mismatched array of cups and pulls down a peach mug with a chip in the handle, filling it with fresh coffee. He pours in too much of the creamer and adds one spoonful of sugar as he stirs.

He watches the faint beam of a flashlight through the window over the sink until he gets distracted by the soft glow of a firefly, and another, and two more. They’re everywhere, quietly lighting up the open air.

He takes his coffee with him down the hall and, leaving the door open, steps out onto the porch. There’s groups of fireflies, all clustered together and blinking gold as night continues to settle. It’s quiet, no rumble of cars or honking horns or a noisy neighbor with his TV turned up too loud.

It’s so quiet Braydon can hear the crickets.

The house phone rings then, loud and shrill, and Braydon rushes for it. “Hello?”

“Uh, Mr. Coburn?”

“Bray- wait. How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your registration.”

Braydon isn’t sure he’s comfortable with someone going through his glove box, but he can’t do much about it from where he is, so, "It’s just Braydon.”

“Okay, Braydon. Anyways, the good news is that I can fix your car.” He rambles on with the explanation of a belt snapping and something grinding and what parts need to be replaced.

“That’s great! How soon?” Braydon is pretty sure there’s some not-so-good news that’s being held back.

“Well, that’s the thing. I have to order a part and it will...well, I can have it here early Sunday if I pull a few strings.”

“Yes. Please. Pull them. Price doesn’t matter, okay? Anything you need.” Braydon knows he’s probably setting himself up to be ripped off. “I have to be out of here by Sunday evening at the latest.”

“Okay, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks,” he says, moving to hang up.

“Oh and Braydon? Talk to Slater, he’ll let you stay.”

“Wha-” is all Braydon gets out before the line goes dead. He stands there listening to the dial tone for a bit before returning the phone to its cradle.

He takes a sip of his coffee, wondering how long it’ll be before Slater’s done with...whatever it is he’s doing in the barn. Walking back to the screen door, he decides to test if those rocking chairs are more comfortable than they look.

It turns out that they are.

He slouches down in the chair, sipping from his mug while scanning the yard for fireflies swooping about lazily. He sees one land on the porch rail and watches as its tail lights up in pulses. He’s not sure if he likes the quiet buzz of nature or if it's discomforting without the ruckus of a city, but it  _is_ sort of nice.

The only measure of time passing is the level of coffee in his mug and he’s running on empty before he sees a flashlight beam bouncing its way back towards the house. Braydon follows the movement of it until Slater’s visible in the dim glow of the porch light.  

“Hey,” Slater says, popping a smile. He stops at the foot of the stairs to knock off his boots.

“Hey.” Braydon stands, setting his empty mug on the railing, and considers how to break the news of his short conversation with Witty.

“You hear from Witty?” Slater asks, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

That was easy. Braydon nods and fills him in on the particulars.

Slater looks thoughtful when he’s finished. “So, you need a place to stay.”

It isn’t a question so Braydon doesn't answer. He knows the farm isn’t a pool or the fancy hotel room he was expecting, but it’ll do. Slater stretches then, arms high over his head and Braydon’s breath catches when he pulls off his hat to scratch at a mop of curls before settling it back down and coming up the stairs.

The view could be worse.

"Come on, I'll show you to your room." Slater scoops up the laptop and gym bag that Braydon left just inside the door earlier.

"I can get that, you know," Braydon says, starting after him.

"What kind of host would I be if I made you carry your own stuff?" Slater clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he heads down the short hall and into the back of the house. "Here it is."

Braydon looks around the small room, taking in the full size bed, which is covered with what is unmistakably a handmade patchwork quilt, the small bedside table, and the absolutely enormous dresser that's over in the far corner.

Slater sets his stuff on the bed and walks around to turn on the lamp, casting a warm glow. “It’s a pretty good bed. The mattress is newer than mine.”

"I really like this," Braydon says softly, running a hand over the quilt.

"Thanks, uh, my grandma made it out of some of my baby blankets," Slater replies, his voice just as quiet.

Braydon is instantly reminded of the asshole thing he said earlier about the wallpaper and he starts to apologize, but Slater's already changing the subject.

"Let me show you the bathroom."

The bathroom is a horrible sea-foam green color that looks even worse under the florescent lighting. Braydon’s seen half-baths that are bigger than this and he's only  _halfway_ in it. He bites his tongue hard to make sure he doesn't say anything about the tiny shower stall or chipped sink that will insult Slater or his grandmother.

"So, that's about it," Slater announces, leading him back to the guest room. "I don’t have satellite but the radio - the one under the phone in the kitchen - it works great. Help yourself to anything that you want in the fridge, okay? I’ve got an early morning so I’m off to bed but just holler if you need something. I’m right down the hall."

Braydon checks his watch, frowning when he sees that it isn't even nine. How could anyone go to bed this early?

He scans the sparse room and he wonders what he can do to amuse himself in a house without any internet or even a TV. His eyes fall on his laptop, which he boots up easily. "Looks like it's a solitaire kind of night."

Except it turns out that his computer doesn't come with solitaire. Or pinball. Or even minesweeper. Apparently he'd need to download them, which...Braydon pauses, fishing around for his phone. He can totally use his phone as a hot spo-

He groans at the little 1x and single bar.

Braydon tosses his phone at the end table, ignoring the sound that it makes as it slides away, and turns back to his laptop.  He spends a few minutes trying to go over some stuff for Dallas but it isn't long at all before he's snapping the whole thing closed, frustrated by the silence that's making it hard to focus.

He paces around the room for a few minutes before deciding to just strip down to his boxers and climb into the bed. The humor of only lasting about twenty minutes past the time that Slater went to bed is definitely not lost on him.

So Braydon lays there. And he lays there. He turns over. Lays there some more. He debates getting off, if only to help himself relax, then remembers how far away the bathroom is, not to mention the prospect of having to explain  _that stain_ on grandma's blanket.

He groans and rolls over again feeling like he lays there forever, finally managing to fall asleep just before the sky starts to lighten.

//

"What the fuck?" Braydon mutters to himself as the rooster that must be sitting outside his window crows continuously. He cracks an eye open and immediately regrets it. The early morning sun is  _beaming_ through the uncovered glass. He didn’t pull the blackout curtains closed before he fell asleep. "Way to go, self."

He hears Slater already moving around in the house and figures he may as well get up too. He dresses before following the sounds through the hall and finding Slater in the kitchen spreading something dark on a piece of toast. He’s already in dirty jeans and a flannel shirt, belt buckle big enough to be seen from space. Braydon clears his throat quietly to catch Slater's attention.

"Oh, did I wake you?" Slater looks apologetic. "I was trying not to clang around in here too much."

"No, you didn't." Braydon smiles at the earnest look on Slater's face then sheepishly adds, "I didn't close my curtains."

Slater laughs and it may be one of the best things that Braydon's ever heard. "That'll do it every time. Here." He puts the toast on a small plate and offers it to Braydon with a fresh cup of coffee.

"I don't know how you take it, so I left it black. I have some chores to tend to, but I'll be around." He turns, heading from the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. "That blackberry jam is homemade so I hope you like it."

Braydon hears the front door slam behind Slater and he moves to settle at the small table. He picks up a piece of toast and is sincerely glad Slater’s not around to hear the embarrassing noise he makes. The jam is just the right combination of tart and sweet and the bread is thick and crusty and perfect. He quickly finishes the first slice and feels blessed that Slater thought to make him two.

He spots a faded creamer boat sitting over on the counter and grabs his mug of black coffee to doctor up. He grins when he realizes it's duck-shaped and pours some into his coffee with a bit of sugar like always. Raising the mug to his lips for a tester sip, his eyes shift out the small window over the kitchen sink.

Naturally, he chokes on that first sip, jerking back and spilling some on the counter when he catches sight of Slater slinging bales of hay into the back of his truck like they weigh nothing.

“Fuck me,” he curses under his breath, looking for something to mop the coffee up with.

He’s distracted again when Slater grabs the next bale, the way his forearms just...and his biceps….and how his hips twist to…

Braydon crouches down under the sink when Slater looks back towards the house, not sure if Slater can see him though the small window. Not really wanting to take a chance on it.

He abandons his coffee, fleeing to the bedroom. It might not be his finest moment.

He sits on the bed and tries to work up the will to open his laptop, to work on something boring and routine, something to distract him from hay and  _arms_ an--.

"Hey, I-" Slater's voice jolts him from his impure thoughts, he looks up to see Slater smirking at him from the doorway. "Sorry, didn't mean'ta startle you."

"No, it's alr-it was my fault," Braydon places his laptop down, scrambles to his feet.

"I just wanted to let you know that I have to drive out onto the farm; tend some things. I'll be back by lunch though."

"Okay, um. Do you have WiFi?" Braydon asks, indicating vaguely to his laptop.

Slater looks like he wants to laugh, but his voice isn't mean when he says, "Nah, I just use my cell if I need internet. Anyways, I'll be back a little later."

Braydon glances at his computer when Slater turns to leave, spends about three seconds debating whether to use his phone as a hot spot, remembers that he can’t, then asks, "Hey, why don't I come with you?"

"Pardon?" Slater asks, turning back.

"I should come. Help. You know, as a thanks for letting me stay?" Braydon doesn't mean for it to come out as a question, but it does. Then Braydon sees  _that_ glint in Slater's eye. It's the same look he got at the beginning of his career when everyone thought he wouldn't be able to make a deadline or get a job done right the first time.

It makes him want to prove that he can handle anything that the farm can throw his way.

Braydon expects Slater to scoff at his offer, already has his mouth open to argue, so he's surprised when Slater says, "You can't really help out in that getup. Got anything else?"

"I have my gym clothes," Braydon offers, turning towards his bag. He pulls out a pair of shorts and a workout shirt.

"Nah, that won't...your legs need more protection than that. Hold on," Slater disappears through the door. Braydon busies himself putting his gym stuff back in the bag and pulling out his tennis shoes.

"Here."

Braydon turns at the sound of Slater's voice to see him holding out jeans, a shirt that looks quite similar to the one he’s wearing himself, and a belt with a buckle that is simply too big to be a real thing that people wear. "The jeans might be a little short on you, but I think that we're similar enough in the waist?"

Slater averts his eyes when Braydon slips out of his shirt but Braydon thinks he catches a slight pinking of Slater's cheeks. He feels a little smug when he kicks out of his Italian loafers and dark jeans and into the pair Slater offered him, which thankfully fit him well enough that he can forgo the belt.

"You’re gonna ruin those," Slater says, wrinkling his nose at Braydon's white tennis shoes. "But I don't think we wear the same size, so they’ll have to do."

Braydon makes a little face at the thought of wearing someone else's shoes, crouching down to tie his laces.

“Ready,” he announces, standing. He stretches his arms out behind his back even though he doesn’t need to, just so the fresh shirt he’s wearing pulls tight across his chest. He thinks maybe Slater’s cheeks pink up again.

"Alright, let’s go. I gotta drive the hay out to the cow pasture," Slater starts, thumbing a finger over his shoulder. "We'll start easy, c'mon."

Braydon can't help but smirk at the way Slater seems to force himself to pull his eyes away.  "Okay," he agrees, following Slater out to the truck.

 

The music is still loud and twangy.

"Is there anything that isn't country? At all?" Braydon asks, afraid he already knows the answer.

"Nope," Slater replies. "Don't worry though, it grows on you." He winks as he puts the truck into gear.

Braydon huffs and settles into the seat a bit, trying to make himself comfortable. He watches rows of corn pass, thinking of asking just how big the farm is, when the view suddenly opens up and he's looking at a cow-dotted pasture.

"What are all of those brown circles on the ground?" Braydon asks as they climb down from the truck.

"Brown circles?" Slater looks out into the pasture, obviously confused.

"Yeah, they're like all over the place? They look like moon pies, or something."

Awareness blooms on Slater's face and then he's laughing hysterically, bent in half from the force of it. "Oh, they're 'pies', alright." He's wiping tears off his face now.  "Cow pies."

"What?" Braydon asks pointedly, slightly offended before his eyes go wide. “You mean  _all_ of that is sh-?”

"Yes it is," Slater interrupts him.

Braydon gapes back out at the pasture while Slater pulls a tattered blue handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes his cheeks dry.

"Why don't you climb up and throw the hay bales down to me," Slater suggests once he’s pulled himself together and grabbed the old red wheelbarrow that was leaning against the fence.  

Braydon nods, climbing up into the truck. "How many?"

"Just throw them all down."

Braydon gets to throwing, his back starting to ache a bit halfway through from the repetition of it.  He ignores it and watches Slater load the bales and wheel them over to a couple of large, round racks. Braydon jumps down after throwing the last one overboard, bringing them one by one, figuring that it’ll speed things up a little.

He smiles at one of the littlest cows, coming up to the fence to rub on and stick it’s face through the slats. “Hey, buddy.”

The calf pushes his head into Braydon’s hand and it’s nostrils flare toward the bales of hay he’d moved.

“You hungry?” He pulls out a handful and offers it to the calf, who doesn’t hesitate to snatch it from his fingers. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

“Spoiling my calves, I see.”

Braydon startles and stands up, only momentarily nervous that he did something wrong. “Sorry.”

“I do it too,” he says, smiling. “It’s hard to resist that face. C’mon, we’ve gotta to make sure the hay's spread out and top off the water.” He heads back to the gate, hopping over it with ease. Braydon follows after him, thinking how much easier this farm stuff is than he expected when his feet go out from under him and he lands on his ass.

He lays there, looking around and blinking slowly, feeling more than a bit stupid. "This is a lot of mud."

Slater is shaking his head, looking like he's trying to not laugh at Braydon  _again_ when he offers him a hand. "Sorry about that, guess I shoulda warned you about how slippery it is here right by the water trough."

Braydon accepts the hand up, looking around to his backside and the mud that's caked there, frowning.

"Don't worry, it'll fall right off once it dries," Slater says absentmindedly, turning back to his chores. "Why don't you hop back over and I'll do this up quick."

Braydon does as instructed, and, sure enough, the dried mud is falling off of his pants by the time Slater finishes up.

"Alright, let's go check the chicken coop," Slater says, re-parking the wheelbarrow by the gate.

"Won't I make your seats disgusting?" Braydon asks, hesitating at the open door.

"A little dirt is definitely not the worst thing that's been in my truck," Slater grins.

Braydon gapes at him as he climbs up into the seat. “Really?”

Slater seems to get a kick out of the way his face looks. “Dirty mind.”

//

Braydon is deciding that he hates chickens as he gets pecked in the hand for what is undoubtedly the fiftieth time. They're gross, their feathers are gross, those stupid poop pellets are gross, getting eggs out from under their asses is gross.

He sighs as he reaches under chicken number five, only to be pecked yet again.

"No, stop!" Braydon frowns when he's pecked at once more. "Just let me-" He gets another beak to the hand. "I just-" More strikes at his hand. It's going to be covered with little pinpoint bruises, he just knows it. "Why can't you-" He pulls his hand back in time to avoid a hit. "JUST LET ME TAKE YOUR EGGS! I’M NOT TRYING TO MURDER YOU!"

The chicken is not impressed by his outburst.  

Braydon throws his hands in the air, giving it up as a lost cause. He's muttering to himself about stupid chickens with their stupid red combs and sharp beaks when Slater walks up from whatever chicken-less task he's been doing.  

He eyes the sparsely-filled basket of eggs at Braydon’s feet. "I think that's enough of that for now." Slater's smirk is threatening to bloom into a full grin. He yanks his head towards the barn. "C'mon, let's tend to the horses."

Braydon takes a second to enjoy Slater's ass in his jeans before following.

He steps into the large breezeway of the barn and takes a deep breath, noticing the woodsy smell of it. The roof is high, unreachable high, and he wonders how Slater gets up there to keep it clean of cobwebs when he spots a large wooden ladder on wheels over in the corner.

"The hayloft," Slater supplies when he sees Braydon looking up the ladder to the platform at the top. "It's for storing hay during the rainy season.

"I know what a hayloft is," Braydon counters, rolling his eyes.

"Well, you didn't know about the cows, so..." Slater's smirk is reappears as he turns away to close the gate.

"So what, uh, what should I do?" Braydon asks, a bit annoyed to be reminded of all of the ways he's made an ass of himself so far today.

"Go ahead and cut open that bale and put a section in each stall's rack while I call the horses," Slater answers distractedly, starting through the breezeway.

"It comes in sections?" Braydon looks at the two strings of twine holding the bale together. "Cut it open with what?"

Slater pauses and pulls out the biggest jackknife that Braydon has ever seen. "Be careful with this," he says, tossing it over.

"I know how to use a knife." Braydon snaps, flipping it open and cutting the twine. It's easy for him to see the sections it's divided into once the bale is loose and he feels like an idiot for about the hundredth time today.

He's just picking up a couple of sections when a loud whistle startles him. He looks over to see Slater standing up on the far gate, calling the horses in from grazing. He doesn't see them yet, but rushes to get hay in every rack like he was told.

The first horse, shiny black with a long tail, has arrived by the time he's finished.

"Hey, just stand back by the other gate, okay?" Slater instructs.

Braydon backs up until he feels the gate at his back, watching Slater open the stall door nearest to him. Something about the way Slater places his body in the space between himself and the horse makes Braydon feel a little soft in the chest.

When Slater opens the gate, the horse is obviously skittish as it prances into its stall.

"I didn't expect him to come first. He's a stallion and they're..." Slater trails off and shrugs. "You know?"

"Yeah," Braydon replies, everyone knows stallions can be high strung.

Slater shoots him a smile before turning back to the gate and leading the other horses in one-by-one with a guiding hand on their halter. He gives all, aside from one, couple of scoops of some pellets, then disappears into a small room for a second. He returns with a bucket, which he hands to Braydon, before heading for the very last stall with Braydon trailing after him yet again.

"May I introduce you to Lady Nosington De Rosingmirth, or, as she's known around these parts, Nosey." Slater strokes her neck.

"What even is that name?" Braydon asks, making a small aborted movement to reach for her.

"That's her name on her registration. They all have ridiculous names." Slater shakes his head. "It's a thing."

"It's a dumb thing," Braydon mutters, pleased with himself when he draws out that laugh of Slater’s he's already so fond of.    

"You aren't wrong," Slater agrees. "Anyway, I'm going to curry her." He holds up a funny looking rubber oval that's full of little teeth and nods toward the bucket Braydon’s still holding. "Why don't you feed her?"

"Okay, um," Braydon thinks on it for a second, debates offering the whole thing but decides to scoop a handful up and hold it out.

"Wait, hold on." Slater stops what he's doing at her neck and walks over behind Braydon. "Here, let me..." His calloused hands are gentle when he places them on Braydon's arms, positioning him so that he's in front of Nosey and his hand is outstretched away from his body. “Keep your hand flat. There, perfect.”

Slater brushes his fingers along Braydon’s arm before going back to Nosey’s neck, scratching with the curry comb in a circular motion. Braydon doesn’t realize he gets caught up in watching Slater until Nosey bumps him in the shoulder.

"Oh, sorry," he mumbles, holding up the food like Slater showed him. Her lips feel funny brushing over his palm. "Why did you get her different food?" he asks, grabbing another handful and offering it to her.

"She's with foal," Slater answers, obviously pleased. "So, special food, you know?" He stops with his chore for a second, looking over at Braydon. His smile is soft, kind even. "Thanks for helping with her."

"I'm glad to." Braydon replies, unable to stop the smile that forms on his own lips. They linger like that until Nosey butts Braydon looking for more food. They both laugh and Slater goes back to his brushing while Braydon offers her another handful.

//

They take a break for lunch after that.  Slater points Braydon to the table and he gratefully takes a seat while Slater opens the fridge.  He comes over with a gallon of what Braydon thinks might be tea, though the color is unusually light, in one hand and a Tupperware full of fried chicken in the other.  Slater sets the chicken down at the same time he hands Braydon the tea.  He watches Slater as he heads back to the kitchen, stretching out in his chair and feeling refreshed and lighter than he has in years.  He wants more of it all. Feeding horses, fighting chickens, even falling in mud puddles. Every bit of it.

"You don't mind it cold, do you?" Slater asks, grabbing a couple of plates and cups from one of the cabinets before settling across from him.  "You just missed it fresh last night and my microwave’s busted."

Braydon doesn't actually know the answer to that question because he's never had cold fried chicken, but he goes with it. The microwave’s broken anyway. "No, that's totally fine."

Slater tips the container at him, offering the first pick. Braydon pretends to think about it before taking one of the breasts; he doesn't like the texture of dark meat. Slater pours them both some of what turns out to be the sweetest sweet tea he’s ever tasted and it's quiet for a minute as they start eating.

Slater looks up eventually, wiping his fingers off on a paper towel. “You mad you offered to help?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, I’ve got a few more things to do after this so you’re welcome to join in. But I won’t be mad if you got other stuff to do.”

He thinks about his phone in paperweight mode and his laptop with notes and presentations and just, gobs of things so boring his brain would surely drip right out of his ears. “No, I’d love to help. Whatever you’ve got.”

Slater grins and Braydon feels rewarded that he made the right choice.

 

After lunch, Braydon follows Slater to a shed just outside the house to help load a couple of bags of seeds into a wheelbarrow. They stroll along a lane that neighbors some of the crop plots, overgrown with grass or already harvested. Braydon looks around a bit, once again marveling at the size of the farm, no other houses as far as the eye can see. No other people either.

"Hey, who usually helps you with all of this stuff?"

"Me and myself." Slater pauses, scratching his chin. "Well, sometimes Witty comes and helps out a bit when it's calving season, but other than that? It's just me and my farm."

Slater looks happy enough, but Braydon thinks it sounds pretty lonely.

The subject changes after that when Slater starts telling him little tidbits about the land, where all the animals are, how long it’d take the walk the perimeter, what fences need repairing. He spends the rest of the walk listening to Slater talk, only occasionally interrupting with questions of his own. Eventually Slater steers off the path and rolls to a stop at a small freshly plowed field.

“Hope you’re ready to get your hands dirty,” Slater drawls, a little grin playing at his lips.

//

Braydon slumps back into one of the chairs around the little dining table three hours later, folding over and resting his head on his arms.

“Hard work, eh?”

Braydon accepts the beer Slater sets down by his elbow.

“Not bad for a city boy.” He sits across from Braydon, leaned back with his legs spread. He’s still in his boots and dirty jeans, tosses his snapback on the table. “You earned half this six-pack. Easily.”

“You do that every day?”

Slater smiles, takes a long sip of his beer. “Every day.”

“That’s amazing.”

Slater wipes at his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing a streak of dirt right under his eye. “Wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“You, uh…” Braydon brushes at his own cheek. “Got a little dirt.”

“Huh?”

“I got it…” He gets up and around the table, crouching down to Slater’s level to carefully wipe away the smudge, just barely letting his fingertips linger. “There.”

“Oh.”

Braydon sits back down and digs his fingers into his shoulder, pressing on a newly formed knot. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Slater’s eyes have gone all soft and thoughtful. He shakes his head and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, lets it go. “No reason. You wanna play some cards?”

“Texas hold ‘em? Seven card stud?”

Slater grabs the deck out of a little drawer under the radio and tosses it in the center of the table. It’s old, the edges worn and ripped, the white of the design tarnished to brown. “Go Fish.”

“For money?”

“For fun.”

 

They play a ridiculous amount of Go Fish between their first and third beers. They’re tied after ten rounds and Slater leans back to grab a bottle of clear liquid stoppered with a cork from the bottom of the hutch.

“Loser takes a shot.”

Braydon wrinkles his nose as he shuffles. “What the fuck is that?”

“Moonshine. My granddad makes it.”

“You trying to make me go blind?” he jokes, dealing them both seven cards.

Slater seems to get a kick out of that. “I’m telling him you think he makes bad moonshine.”

“Just pick up your cards,” he says, kicking at Slater’s ankle under the table. “You have any fives?”

“Go fish.”

He picks up a card he doesn’t need and watches Slater lay down two-pair right off the bat.

“Got any twos?”

And damn if Braydon hadn’t just picked one up. “I know this is pure luck, but I hate you right now.”

“You’re not a sore loser, are you?” he asks, setting down his third pair.

“You’re not gonna find out. Any queens?”

Slater smirks. “Go fish.”

It doesn’t even take half the deck for Slater to win, matching up every card in his hand and crowing in victory. “Go Fish Champion! Woo!” He rushes down the hallway toward the front door and returns with a cowboy hat on. “The hat of champions,” he says. “And you, my loser friend, get to take a shot.”

Braydon figures it can’t be any worse than the bottom-shelf vodka he used to drink in college. He reaches for the bottle but Slater snatches it back.

“Now hang on. I feel like I should be nice this first go-around. Ease you into the real country lifestyle.”

“A whole day of farm work hardly feels like easing in.”

“Touche. But,” he holds his finger up and walks to the cabinet along the wall with dusty wine glasses and an empty decanter. He crouches down and Braydon feels illicit watching the way his jeans fight against his belt, exposing a little patch of skin on his lower back. “I think you’ll actually like this.”

It’s a smaller bottle and the liquor is darker in color, nearly amber. “Whiskey?”

“Apple pie moonshine.”

Braydon’s not real sure how much of an improvement that actually is.

“I’ll take one with you,” Slater announces, setting up two little teacups that are nowhere near regulation shot size.

“Thought it was a loser shot.” He props his chin on his hand, watching Slater struggle with the cork.

“Can’t be a loser if it’s apple pie moonshine.”

The guy’s a little bit of a lightweight, Braydon decides. It’s kind of cute. He takes his teacup and lifts it to his nose, which was a mistake.

“That’ll burn the nose hairs right off,” Slater laughs, raising his cup by its tiny handle. “To broken down cars and cow pies and go fish.”

Braydon can drink to that. “Ah shit, that’s...that’s good but it’s awful.”

“I’m really gonna tell granddad that, he’ll get a kick out of it. Oh!” He stumbles out of his chair to get to the radio, cranking the volume. “Another great song. You  _have_ to know this one, right?”

Braydon tries not to smile at the way Slater struggles with the first few lines, getting his bearings just before the chorus.

“ _B_ _ut I don’t want good and I don’t want good enough I want can’t sleep can’t breathe without your love._ ” He’s got his eyebrows raised in Braydon’s direction, encouraging him to join in. “  _Front porch and one more kiss it doesn’t make sense to anybody else. Who cares if you’re all I think about..._ ”

Braydon shakes his head in apology.

“... _It ain’t right if you ain’t lost your mind. Yeah I don’t want easy, I want crazy, you with me baby? Let’s be crazy._ ” He stomps his foot in rhythm, scuffs the heel of his boot on the old wood floor. Braydon’s pretty sure he’s one thigh-slap away from a full-blown two-step.

Slater sticks his thumb behind his big belt buckle and sways his hips, cocking his cowboy hat down with one of those ever-present grins. He does a little stutter-step toward Braydon and he’s tempted to grab him by the pocket and sit him right down in his lap. Tempted to fit his thumbs to the notches of his hips and hold him still while he swallows up his terrible singing with a kiss.

“... _the world makes all kinds of rules for love, I say you gotta let it do what it does_ …”

He’s not really even paying attention to the words Slater’s singing, caught up in how dark his eyes are in the dim light. Braydon doesn’t want to blink, afraid it’ll break whatever magic is in the apple pie moonshine and the twangy guitar of the song.

The air’s thick with whatever it is and god, Braydon shouldn’t be thinking like this. He’s not that hard up that he has to throw himself on some...some  _stranger_ that helped him on the side of the road.

He might be a little bit hard up. And Slater’s got a really nice ass.

He exhales when Slater turns back to the radio to belt out a second round of the chorus, and drags his fingers through his hair. He tugs on the strands, a jolt of  _get yourself together man._

But then Slater’s there with an empty beer bottle, still singing his heart out in Braydon’s general direction. Someone should tell him he’s charming like this, a little buzzed and warm in the cheeks. They should tell him to keep that stupid grin under wraps unless he’s trying to flirt someone into bed. Someone should tell him these things. He can’t just go around  _doing_ this kind of stuff.

Braydon clenches his hand in a fist as Slater scooches around the table again, thighs stretching out his jeans. He’s taken up snapping his fingers just a little bit off-beat and humming along with the guitar as the song winds down.

In another time and place, the dark corner of a smoky bar with pool tables and top 40 music, Braydon’d make a move. He’d already be halfway to a hotel room with Slater, already figured out the way his lips tasted. How he felt pressed up against him in the back of a cab.

“Not bad, eh?” Slater says, slumping back into his chair. “Witty told me I should’ve tried out for American Idol.”

That startles a laugh out of Braydon, breaks through the haze. “Yeah, you really missed your calling.”

Slater flicks a bottle cap at him. “You should feel special, getting the full experience.”

“Oh, I do.” He leans back and stretches a leg out, filling up the space on his side of the table.

He watches Slater run his tongue along his bottom lip, transfixed by the little pink point of it. And then all too quickly Slater’s clearing his throat and gathering up their empty bottles. “I should, uh, be getting to bed. Early mornings and all that.”

“Right, of course. I’ll just, um...” He thumbs over his shoulder, pointing in the general direction of the guest room.

“Yeah.” Slater smiles as he rinses out the bottles in the sink. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Braydon doesn’t turn around to watch the way Slater moves around his kitchen but he does hear the faintest humming as the song changes over.

The bedroom is dark and cool compared to the stifling air around the dining table. He can’t stop himself from thinking about what would happen if he went back out there, pressed Slater up against the sink. What would happen if he kissed him right there in front of the ugly flower curtains.

But instead, he strips out of his clothes, piling them by the bed, and crawls under the sheets. He situates the pair of pillows just right and feels the strong pull of sleep crash over him the moment he shuts his eyes.

//

Instead of that obnoxious rooster, he wakes up to Slater clattering around in the kitchen and the smell of bacon. He rolls over and reaches for his phone out of habit but it’s not on the nightstand. It’s not...he doesn’t actually know where it is. And that...that feels  _good_.

Slater’s not wearing a shirt when he walks into the kitchen, naturally, and Braydon chokes on his own saliva. “Super smooth, asshole,” he mutters to himself as he clears his throat and flees to the bathroom to shower.

“Better make it quick! These grits aren’t gonna keep too long!” he hears Slater shout while he waits for the water to heat up.

“I don’t like grits anyway,” he calls back, stepping into the small stall. He thinks he hears Slater laughing as the hot water hits his hair.

 

“You sure you wanna wear that?” Slater asks, indicating the Nike dri-fit Braydon’s got on.

He tugs at it and smiles. “It can take a little dirt.”

Which should really be Braydon’s famous last words.

They head out to “move the goats” to a patch of grass that needs “mowing” which involves Slater chasing the goats around their enclosure until he catches one and then handing it up to Braydon in the back of his truck.

“Are you sure this is how you’re supposed to do this? Won’t they all just jump out?”

“That’s why you’re here,” Slater says, handing over one of the bigger goats in the herd. “And watch the little black one. She likes to chew.”

Braydon eyes the goat in question. “I’m watching you.”

Slater’s, naturally, very quick in capturing the nine goats and gets Braydon to settle down with his back to the cab. The goats gather and Braydon feels the same kind of panic he felt surrounded by all of his baby cousins at the last family reunion.

Slater tosses him a little bag with bits and pieces of vegetables. “They’ll like you more if you feed them.”

Which is the last piece of advice Braydon gets before Slater’s hopping up into the driver’s seat.

“Okay then,” Braydon says. “Who wants some veggies?”

The biggest of the group bully their way forward as the the truck accelerates and Braydon divvies them out some celery, laughing as he watches them chew. “Did no one ever tell you to chew with your mouth closed?”

The truck rocks as they head off the gravel and Braydon ends up with a lapful of goat as they all struggle to right themselves. He thinks the grey one in the corner looks like he’s ready to jump ship.

“Hey, no, you. Yeah you, with the nervous hooves. Get over here. I’ve got a carrot for you.”

One of the big goats tries to steal it right out of Braydon’s hand but he holds out for the grey one, satisfied when he takes it from his palm. “See, life’s good. No need to bail.”

He realizes too late that the goat in his lap is the chewer, a mouthful of his shirt ground between her teeth. “Can I interest you in some green beans instead of my clothing?”

The goat continues to chew.

“Okay, good talk.”

He passes out the green beans to other, more deserving goats, and once they’re all satisfied with their snack, the truck is rolling to a halt.

“Everybody make it?” Slater asks, stepping up on the back wheel to examine the contents of the truck bed. “Aw, look at that. I knew they’d warm up to you.”

Braydon would cover himself in goats every day if it meant he got to see Slater look at him like that. “This one just likes me for my fashion sense.”

“To be fair, I did warn you about her.”

The hole isn’t too big but Braydon’s definitely going to have to trash the shirt. “She’s pretty cute, otherwise.”

“Yeah. C’mon, let’s get ‘em unloaded.”

The goats are happy to prance around their new space and immediately start chomping on the ankle-high grass.

“How do you feel about ducks?” Slater asks, latching the tailgate.

“I mean, I’ve never had a traumatic experience with one so, ducks are okay.”

“Great.” He gets back into the cab and Braydon is quick to follow.

They bounce around a bit more until they pick up the gravel again and Slater slips on a pair of sunglasses when they turn dead on into the sun. He cranks the radio a little when some old crooner comes on and Braydon settles back in the passenger seat.

“This is where the property line used to be,” Slater says when they pass nothing in particular. “But then for my grandma’s birthday one year, my granddad wanted to get her the lake that’d just gone up for sale.”

“He bought her a lake?”

“Our family’s big on romantic gestures. He always wished it faced west but, it’s a nice lake either way.”

They roll to a stop at the edge of a gate and Slater makes quick work of opening it and driving on through. “Dad and I built a dock one summer a while back. Not for a boat or anything, just to sit on and fish. We never catch anything though.”

Braydon sees the dock, the wood a little faded and a couple beer cans out on the end of it. “Seems like a nice place to just sit.”

“Yeah.” Slater keeps driving, following the curve of the water. “The ducks’ll come around back. There’s a bench that they know means food.”

There’s a big tree by the bench, casting half of it into shade. It’s just a simple thing, one of those green wrought iron ones that are in parks.

“I’ll grab the corn,” Slater says, shutting off the engine.

Braydon watches him hop up into the back of his truck and sling the bag over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Mercy.

The ducks are already swimming towards the shoreline as they make their way to the bench and a moment later they're swamped with more ducks than Braydon has ever seen in one place in his life, all quacking for food.

“Geez, you weren’t kidding.”

"Here, throw it like this," Slater instructs, demonstrating. “Before they get impatient.”

Braydon copies it easily and they spread most of the bag around before the ducks start slipping back into the water to float off their meal.

“Finally something I’m good at,” Braydon says, feeling positive about the lack of injury or mess.

“You were good at feeding Nosey.”

“She made it easy.”

They fall into content, amiable silence, Slater kicking some corn at the ducks too shy to get close. It’s nice.

“You swim in there?” Braydon asks, feeling daring.

“Yeah, off the dock sometimes.”

“What about from here?” He stands and peels his shirt over his head, toes off his shoes and socks.

“ _What_?”

“Can you swim from over here? Or is there a lake monster waiting to gobble me up?”

“No there’s not...are you going in there in  _jeans_? Hey!”

Braydon’s already heading for the water, undoing the button and shimmying out of Slater’s jeans. He wades out about mid-thigh before diving in, swimming until he’s almost out of air.

He breaks the surface and gasps, flinging his hair off of his forehead. He turns and spots the bench, empty save for a couple piles of clothes. “Slater?”

The surface of the lake is calm except for where he’s treading to stay afloat and he entertains the idea that Slater drove off and left him. “Slat--.”

Something grabs him by the ankle and tugs him under, he sputters and flails and kicks until he pops up again, face-to-face with a very pleased farm boy.

“You think I was gonna let you swim in my lake without me?”

Braydon doesn’t hesitate to dunk him. But Slater’s quick, digging his fingers into Braydon’s sides so he recoils, ticklish.

“That’s just rude!”

Slater laughs and kicks away to float on his back, disturbing a few ducks still hanging around. “No rules in the lake.”

Braydon, without much in his arsenal, resorts to splashing. Slater, obviously, retaliates and it devolves quickly until they’re both breathing heavy and treading water barely an arm’s length away. Braydon tries not to linger on the way Slater’s curls look wet, the way the water beads off the end of his nose, the clench of his jaw when he swallows.

“I think…” Slater starts, drifting close enough to touch.

His eyes drop to Braydon’s mouth and Braydon’s never wanted anything more in his whole life.

“You’re sunburnt.”

“Huh?”

“Your nose is all red. And I bet your neck is, too.”

“Oh, yeah.” He makes some space between them. “I guess we’ve, uh, been outside for a while.”

“I’ve got some aloe at the house.”

“Sure.”

He watches Slater paddle back to shore, cursing his alabaster city skin.

//

They squeeze into the tiny bathroom back at the house and Slater positions him up against the sink. Braydon watches him in the mirror, opening the aloe and getting some on his fingers. Slater spots him watching when he reaches up to rub the gel against the back of Braydon’s neck, catches his bottom lip between his teeth before he flicks his eyes to the job at hand.

Braydon tries not to think about Slater warm along his back. He grips the edge of the sink to ground himself, focusing on the little chip taken out of the bowl instead of the way he wants to press into Slater’s touch.

“Turn around, let me get your nose.”

And Braydon knows he can reach his own nose just fine but he turns anyway, leaning back against the sink and letting Slater press up against the front of him. There’s no intention behind it, the way Slater gently brushes his cool fingers along the bridge of his nose and across the apples of his cheeks.

Except for the way that there  _is_.

The bathroom is way too small for two grown men and the lust that Braydon keeps letting bubble over. It’s suffocating with how close Slater is, how he can smell his hair and the way the country air sticks to his clothes, how he can almost pick out little flecks of gold in his eyes, each individual eyelash fanning out along his cheek, the freckles pulled to the surface by the sun. He’s choking on the desire to just take a couple steps and have Slater flat against the wall, nowhere to go but straight into his arms.

“I think that’s it,” Slater says, capping the aloe and setting it firmly on the counter.

Braydon opens his mouth to say something,  _anything_ , but Slater’s already stepped out of the bubble of the bathroom, already disappeared down the hall. Braydon puffs out a sad exhale and follows, keeping his footsteps light along the old, scuffed wood.

Slater’s at the kitchen sink, water running over the plates and cups from lunch, the pan he cooked bacon in that morning. He’s watching something out the little window, brow furrowed, distracted.

“Can I help?” Braydon asks softly, brushing a hand on the curve of his back.

He turns off the water. “No, I...It’s fine.” His smile is forced.

And Braydon shouldn’t still be thinking about it, about tilting Slater’s chin up enough to capture his lips, holding him by the jaw as he kisses him, finding a handful of curls to tug on as he learns the way they fit together.

But he is.

“Fuck, I just…” he says, stepping up into Slater’s space, chest-to-chest.

And Slater gasps, barely loud enough to hear in the stillness of the house, eyes settled on Braydon’s mouth. He sets his jaw and lifts his chin just enough, hardly moves at all but Braydon notices and he curves down just as little, a give and take. They’re practically breathing the same air, barely inches away. It’d be so easy to close the distance, to give in to exactly what they both wan--.

Slater squeezes his eyes closed when the phone rings, eyebrows scrunched up in displeasure. “I’ll get it.”

Braydon deflates when Slater steps away and turns toward the phone, knowing that the moment, his  _chance_ has passed.

"Yep. Uh-uh. Right. Okay, see you." Slater hangs up and turns back to him. "Your car is ready."

Braydon tries to swallow around the pit that suddenly forms in his throat. He’d forgotten it was Sunday already. "Okay, I'll just...um, get my things." He heads into the hall, dragging his fingers along the wallpaper, thinking to himself how it's grown on him the past couple of days.

Changing into his own clothes and packing doesn't take very long. Locating his phone, on the other hand, takes longer than it's ever taken him in his life.  He finally finds it under the bed without any recollection of how it ended up there. It’s dead. The sad little battery icon flashes at him when he presses the power button. He pockets it. It will have to wait until he's back in his car.

He pauses at the door, tells himself that he isn't lingering when he takes one last look around the bedroom. He offers Slater a smile that quickly wanes. "All set."

"Great, um. Let's go then." Slater grabs his snapback off of the rack as he opens the door, sliding it on while Braydon throws his bag over his shoulder.  All he can hear as they make their way to the truck is the grass crunching under his feet and a few ambient farm noises. Slater's complete silence is making him feel more awkward and out of his element than when Slater first hopped out of the truck and offered him help. It’s suddenly nothing like the lake or cold fried chicken or the silence between them in the bathroom. It’s sharp, like broken egg shells.

The radio is startling, still a little bit too loud, when Slater turns over the engine. Braydon registers the lyrics of the song that's blaring,  _"...right when I was just about to lean on in, why’d you have to go th--"_ just as Slater jumps to hit the power button, silencing it.

More uneasy silence.  

“You know that one?” Braydon asks.

"No," Slater mutters, putting the truck in gear.

Braydon slips down in his seat, watching the retreating farm in the side view mirror and wondering why something in his chest feels disappointed.

Slater sighs when they pull out onto the main road.

"Hey, are you...?" Braydon trails off, not sure how to finish his question.

Slater glances over at him with a soft look in his eyes and a half-smile that is absolutely devastating. "You never told me where you're going," he says, turning back to the road. "Or even what you do, actually."

"Oh. Well, I'm the creative director for a pretty popular table magazine." Braydon forces a small grin. "It's like the GQ of table magazines."

"Very impressive," Slater raises his eyebrows and nods slightly.

Braydon laughs at the look on his face, the awkwardness between them melting away.

"So, where are you going? Home office?"

"Uh, no. The company needs a few people to fill out my department. An art director, a couple photo editors...stuff like that. There's a convention in Dallas this week, starting tomorrow. There will be potential advertisers there to court me for ad space and I'll also hopefully find a few new employees while I give some presentations."

"So you have employees?"

"Yeah," Braydon bites at his thumbnail, looks out at the passing corn and cows. "I guess technically most people fall under me. I only answer to the Editor-In-Chief."

Slater whistles low. "Well, no wonder you have such a fancy car."

Braydon agrees weakly. "No wonder."

"Why do you look like that if you work in an office?"

"Like what?" Braydon asks, looking back over at Slater.

"You know..." Slater shrugs with one shoulder. "You don't look like a guy that works in an office."

Braydon smiles to himself, glad for the sunburn that is hiding his blush. "I've been to the gym once or twice."

"A day?" Slater teases lightly.

"Yeah, maybe."

Braydon can see Witty's shop approaching and he busies himself with the task of taking in everything he can about Slater, attempting to squirrel it away for later. The curls, the smile, the soft eyes. He doesn't even want to forget the ridiculous belt buckles or the worn jeans with the tear above the knee.

Braydon jumps out of the truck as Slater reaches for the ignition, not ready for eye contact just yet. He drops his stuff next to his car, which is sitting right out front ready and waiting. He walks into the office and straight up to the desk where Witty’s leaned with a paper in his hand.

“Got ‘er all fixed up for you, Mr. Coburn.”

“Thank you,” he says, pulling out his wallet. He doesn’t notice the price on the paper until Witty is already running his card. His brows push together in confusion. “Is this the right price?”

Witty glances up from what he's doing, scans the invoice. "Uh, yup. That's right."

"Really?" His furrow deepens while he looks over the itemized list. He opens his mouth to question it further when Witty answers.

"Friends and family discount." He rips the receipt off the machine and hands it to Braydon.

"That’s...you really didn’t have to do that.”

“Slater doesn’t call in many favors,” he says, sliding Braydon a pen. “It’s no problem when he does.”

“Thanks, man. I don't...thanks," Braydon sounds so lame to his own ears that he doesn't even want to know how he sounds to Witty.

Witty grins at him anyway. "Come on, let's get your car and get you out of here."

Braydon follows him out to his car where Slater’s standing, waiting. He's crumpling his hat in his hands when he looks up at Braydon.

"Here, let's get her started," Witty says, apparently taking no notice of them. Braydon's car fires right up, the engine settling into a low purr after a couple of seconds. "Man, I'm sorry that I couldn't keep her longer." He's looking at Slater when he says it. Braydon thinks that maybe Witty has never had a car as nice as his to play with before, that maybe he and Slater will talk about it for a while after he’s gone.

God, he sounds like he’s  _dying_.

"Oh, hey, can you..." Braydon pulls out his phone, handing it to Witty. "Could you plug this in, please?"

"Sure, no problem." Witty takes the phone, ducking inside the car to look for the cord.

Braydon turns back to Slater. "Thanks for everything."

"It was my pleasure." Slater looks at something over Braydon’s shoulder. "Nice to have someone to help around the farm, y'know?"

Slater squints up at him and he finds himself wanting to say a thousand different things. "I'm going to miss, um. Nosey." Braydon feels stupid as soon as it's out of his mouth.

"Nosey is gonna miss you too." Slater has that smile on his face again and Braydon doesn't think that he can look any longer, has to find some reason to look away.

"You're all set now," Witty says cheerfully.

"Yeah, uh...thanks...again." Braydon makes a little face to himself while he picks up his stuff. "Um. Bye."

"Braydon, wait."

He freezes at Slater's pleading tone, looks back over as Slater takes a step towards him.

"You should..." Slater holds out his hat. "Take this. For, you know, your hair."

Braydon looks at the hat with wide eyes. "I'm not sure-"

"You hate when the wind blows your hair." Slater pushes the hat towards Braydon again. "I want you to...just take it, okay?"

Braydon starts to shift the few things in his hands around so he can accept it, but Slater moves right up into his personal space.

"Here, let me help," he says softy.

A little gasp slips from Braydon’s lips when Slater's fingers run into his hair, pushing it back before settling the hat onto his head. Backwards, just like Slater always wears it.

It fits better than he expects.

"Looks great on you," Slater says, stepping away. Braydon opens and closes his mouth a couple times, trying to form words in response to what just happened, but nothing comes to him.

"Thanks," he manages to sputter out after what feels like forever. He starts to say good-bye again before remembering that he already has, so he just gives an awkward little tip of his head and pretty much flees to his car.

He falls into his seat, adjusting it and the mirrors to his liking. He puts his car into gear and looks over at Slater one last time, feeling daring enough to stare from behind his tinted windows. He's caught up in what looks like a very serious talk with Witty, arms crossed and eyes turned down to his feet.

It’s probably for the best, Braydon thinks, and turns his attention to the road, pulling out of the parking lot.

He turns on the radio and searches out Slater's favorite station, satisfied when it comes in clear. He frowns when his phone buzzes to life and every single notification type starts going off, fighting one another for prominence. Braydon panics and holds the power button until it turns off, not ready to deal with any of it.

He spends the next ten minutes absolutely  _not_ watching the distance swallow Witty's shop in his rear-view mirror, definitely not imagining he can still see Slater standing there until he can’t see anything at all.

But he does leave the country station on until it's completely lost to static.

//

It’s late when he gets to the hotel and checks-in, drags himself into the elevator and up to the 22nd floor, into his suite. He barely has the mind to hang up his suit bag before face-planting directly onto the bed. The mattress is soft and the white down comforter smells like recycled air and whatever fabric softener they use.

He kicks off his shoes, hears the  _thunk thunk_ of them hitting the carpet and hopes the little bit of caked on mud didn’t go everywhere. He double-checks the alarm set on his phone before closing his eyes and giving in to the exhaustion.

//

He skips the morning breakout session, opting instead to take a longer-than-necessary shower and make himself a waffle in the hotel lobby. He’s pouring too much creamer into his coffee when a familiar face turns the corner.

A familiar face that he’s never associated with a baby cow before but suddenly looks exactly like the calf he fed on Slater’s farm, all wide-eyed and hungry.

“Hey Coby,” Jamie says, grabbing a styrofoam cup of his own. “Someone said you didn’t make it.”

“And yet here I am.” He doesn’t mean to sound so bitter but it's too early to be reminded of Slater.

Jamie doesn’t seem to care. “Seggy’ll be glad, he’s got a couple people lined up for you.”

“Yeah? How’s your other half doing?”

“Stressed about this whole thing. Like, we knew how much went into putting this kind of conference on but, wow we didn’t really believe it’d be like this.”

Braydon knows the sentiment having gone through a month of stress-induced insomnia the year St. Louis hosted. “You guys did a great job.”

“Says he who hasn’t even picked up his nametag and intro packet yet.”

“Yeah I, uh, I got in pretty late last night.” He sips his coffee and burns the tip of his tongue.

“D’you really drive your R8 all the way down here?”

Braydon chokes and tries to cover it with a cough. “Uh, yeah. I’m not too fond of airplanes and all that. I should go get signed-in before the ten o’clock meeting.” He nods in the general direction away from Jamie. “It was nice to see you, man.”

He tugs at the knot of his tie as he escapes, thumbing the top button of his shirt open. The sign-in tables are lined up down the far hall but Braydon turns for the front doors instead, stepping out into the light drizzle.

“Fuck.”

 

He makes it through the meeting, shaking hands and smiling and accepting resumes from guys who look as eager as he did ten years ago. Something is screaming in him, _begging_ him, to throw their previous work experience and computer proficiency in the trash. To just, let them go on living their lives. Without this job.

“Have any lunch plans?” Jamie asks, scrolling through something on his phone. “I think Seggy’s gonna send someone to get tacos from the place that has good guac.”

Jesus he could not care any less about guacamole. “I think I’m just going to head up to my room and catch up on emails.”

“Boring.” He smiles and slaps Braydon on the back before disappearing into the crowd milling around in the hall.

Braydon is a man of his word, taking the elevator back up to his suite and finally looking at the 97 emails piled up in his inbox. There’s a long back-and-forth between his boss and two of his co-workers, another between his boss and the VP of sales that Braydon really didn’t need to be cc’ed on, three requests for numbers that look easy enough to pull, and a worried few sentences making sure Braydon hadn’t driven off a cliff in rural Oklahoma.

Not quite.

He deletes the junk, lets his boss know he’s in Dallas in one piece, and pulls up the first data request.

It’s barely ten minutes before his phone rings with his boss’ number and a flurry of questions he doesn’t want to answer. He lays back on the bed and pinches the bridge of his nose, doing his best to put on a good face and keep his voice calm. Everything is fine.

He checks the itinerary for the rest of the day and would truly rather be harvesting chicken eggs than sitting through another meeting and an advertising roundtable. He’s seriously considering taking a nap when his phone pings in rapid fire.

_Tacos in ballroom 3_

_COME EAT_

_Jamie’s saving you guac_

His stomach gives a little grumble and he relents, rolling off the bed and stepping around the pair of muddy tennis shoes in the middle of the floor.

//

Braydon’s standing in the shower, hot water beating down on the back of his neck and shoulders. He thinks his fingers are starting to get pruney from how long he’s been avoiding drying himself off and putting on his nicest suit. Avoiding going down to the nice party to make deals and schmooze with nice small talk.

He turns the water off and steps out onto the tile, wrapping a thin hotel towel around his waist. The mirror is fogged up and he wipes away a spot big enough to shave in.

His phone lights up when he’s halfway through and his chest tightens when he sees it’s from an unsaved number, but it’s only the guy he met at the roundtable eager to talk himself up at the party. Which is what he’s here for. To find new driven and artistic employees. To find a handful of good, hardworking people to join them in St. Louis.

He sighs and stares himself down in the mirror; half a scraggly beard and a sunburnt nose, the beginnings of a farmer’s tan, a soft bruise along his shoulder where he broke his fall in the mud. It was just two days, a pit stop on the way from point A to point B. A blip of a memory that will one day fade to nothing in the long story of his life.

Jesus, he’s being dramatic.

He rummages in his bag for a pair of boxers and his fingers catch on something soft and thin. It’s balled up along the side and Braydon pulls it out, letting it fall into his lap when he realizes what it is.

It’s the white shirt Slater let him borrow that first day, dirt around the collar and along the side where he fell. He presses the cotton to his nose, tries to imagine it still smells like hay and grass and fresh air. That only serves to make him feel sorry for himself.

He shoves the shirt back into his bag and gets dressed, pulling on his slacks and button-up, his belt with a normal-sized buckle, simple silver cufflinks and a skinny black tie. It makes him look the part, at least, even if his mind is 350 miles away on a farm in Oklahoma.

 

The party is busy, full of people just like him talking about their last project or sales numbers or pulling out pictures of their kids on their phone. He spots Jamie and Tyler along the back wall deep in conversation with the editor from Boston and sees the guy from the roundtable, Colton, over by the bar.

He’s got the right idea.

“Mr. Coburn!” Colton beams, taking his beer and black cocktail napkin from the bartender. “How’s your night going?”

Braydon orders a bourbon and puts on a smile. He strikes up a bland conversation with Colton like he has with hundreds of people over the years, a pleasant mix of probing questions and personal tidbits. How Colton just graduated from the University of Alaska-Fairbanks, how his parents want him to work closer to home but there’s not many opportunities there, how he just  _loves_ the work Braydon’s doing in St. Louis, how he’d love to be a part of it.

He’s a good kid with a great resume. It’s an easy call for Braydon to smile and hand over an invite to an interview at the end of the month. Easy to shake his hand and tell him he looks forward to seeing him in St. Louis despite a dark corner of his brain already packing up and moving to Tulsa.

“Braydon!” Tyler’s familiar voice says, drawing his attention. “I’d like you meet Robby Fabbri. He did an internship right outside of Toronto last year and is looking for a position.”

He seems like a nice kid too, strong eyebrows and a good head of hair, well-typed resume and an expensive-looking watch. Braydon’s sure he’d be a great fit, especially if Tyler’s recommending him, so he smiles and asks him about his internship and nods along.

He catches himself staring out of the big picture window over Robby’s shoulder, watching the last of the sun slip below the horizon, completely losing the thread of what he’s saying. “Right, uh, if you’re serious about a position in St. Louis,” he says, pulling out a business card. “Give me a call next week and we can set up an interview.”

“Really?”

Braydon claps him on the shoulder. “Really. Now if you’ll excuse me, it was nice to meet you. Keep up the good work, kid.”

He weaves his way through the crowd toward one of the doors leading out onto the balcony and walks all the way to the edge, stretching his arms out along the railing.

“You’re not gonna jump, are you?”

Braydon laughs, hanging his head. “I thought I saw your sorry ass on the schedule.”

Brian leans against the railing with a smile. “Long time no see.”

They’d graduated the same year and circled around the few open jobs on the market, always crossing paths - in airports and rental car places and waiting rooms. It became a running joke, showing up to an interview and always finding the other already there with their slicked back hair and briefcase.

“How’s Tampa treating you? I’ve seen the ad numbers coming out of there, top five in the east two years in a row, eh?”

Brian smiles. “It’s great. Can’t beat the weather. You find some kids to fill your openings?”

“Yeah, everyone’s so fucking qualified these days.”

“Right? I think a few of ‘em could walk right into my job and not skip a beat.”

Braydon shoves at Brian’s shoulder. “Nothing can replace veteran experience.”

“Yeah,” Brian says, sighs. “When did we get old?”

“I think this is what most people would call our ‘prime’.” They’re barely into their thirties and sitting close enough to the top of their jobs to not have to worry about anything. They’re set with fancy sports cars and million dollar condos and five weeks of vacation time.

“You ever think about walking away?”

Braydon huffs, shaking his head. “You have no idea.”

Dallas looks nice in the dark, all the buildings lit up and car headlights bustling around. The moon’s hanging low, nearly full, and Braydon would bet it’s even brighter in Oklahoma.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Brian says.

Braydon considers it. “I think it’d sound crazy if I said it out loud.”

“Crazy is the best reason.”

So he tells him. From the car breaking down, to the farm disasters, to the way Slater looked in his jeans, the way his shirt was too small and his hair was always a mess. He tells him about Go Fish and the moonshine and the moment before he fell asleep when he thought about going back out to the kitchen and kissing him. He tells him about the lake and the bathroom and the sunburn on his nose, how he wanted to kiss him then too and didn’t. How he left and came to Dallas and never even  _kissed_ him.

“That’s crazy, right?” he finishes.

Brian huffs in disbelief. “You’re kidding me right now. What are you even doing here, man? How did you actually get in your car and drive away from that?  _That’s_ the crazy part.”

Oh.

“I’ve gotta,” he starts, backing toward to the door to the party. “I should go, yeah? I’ve gotta go. I have to go back.”

He doesn’t say goodbye to anyone, doesn’t stop to shake hands or announce his departure, he just leaves. He packs up his hotel room, takes off his tie and trades his dress shoes for the tennis shoes at the foot of his bed, and leaves.

Six hours isn’t that long of a drive.

//

It’s well after three in the morning when he pulls to a stop in front of the gravel driveway of the little house with the blue door. He flips off his headlights and idles, mind flooded with all the reasons he’s an idiot. All the reasons this won’t work.

But he’s had six hours and five cups of coffee to think about the things he wants to say to Slater and he can’t back out now.

He pulls up the drive and parks behind Slater’s big truck, reaches back to dig around in his duffel before getting out and tucking the item into his back pocket. He walks by the little yellow flowers under the window, climbs the porch steps, and knocks. He paces in the space between the rocking chairs and knocks again.

Slater opens the door looking soft, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Braydon thinks there’s a pillow crease on his cheek and one side of his hair is flat from the way he’s been laying on it but he’s honestly never seen another human so perfect in his life.

“B-Braydon?”

He pulls the ragged snapback from his pocket, holding it out. “You gave me your hat. And it’s not that I don’t want it, it’s just that I’d much rather have you wearing it.”

“What?”

“And I really should’ve kissed you when I had the chance.”

He gives Slater a breath to register his words before stepping into his space and pulling him into a kiss. He’s warm and pliant and opens up so sweetly for Braydon and he thinks, standing there in the doorway, if this is all he gets it’ll be enough.

But then Slater drags him inside, kicks the door shut, and shoves him up against that god-awful wallpaper. “Don’t you have...a thing? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I-I can’t...I can’t  _do_ that anymore. Not after...all I could think about was being back here with you.”

“With me?”

“Yeah.” He cups Slater’s jaw, tucks a curl behind his ear. Really looks at him. “No place I’d rather be.”

Slater presses their lips together again, getting his fingers twisted up in the collar of Braydon’s shirt, and tugs him down the hall.

“Did you just...did you  _drive_ all the way from Dallas? Just now?” Slater asks, struggling to get Braydon’s shirt out of his pants.

He smiles. “Yeah. I’m gonna pass out the second I hit a pillow so don’t...just, stay right here for a minute. Let me look at you.”

Slater slides his hands up over Braydon’s chest and shoulders, bushes a thumb along Braydon’s cheek as he holds his jaw, noses in the space behind Braydon’s ear. “Come sleep with me, then.”

The little bud of feeling Braydon’s been carrying around in his chest for the past two days blooms. It’s bright and warm and reaches every empty space, filling it up. “Okay.”


	2. Epilogue

_Eight months later…_

 

It’s spring and all the trees are in bloom, little white petals falling in droves, spinning and dancing in the wind. Braydon’s just finished feeding the cows, locking up the pen behind him, when he spots Slater’s truck coming over the far hill. 

He’s got his window rolled down and Braydon can hear him shouting, back tires sliding in the wet grass as he races to where he’s standing.

“It’s happening!”

It’s happening. Braydon stuffs his working gloves in his back pocket and hops into the truck when Slater finally brakes, smile spread across his face. “It’s happening?”

“She went into labor about an hour ago.”

They’ve been waiting for Nosey to give birth for the past couple of weeks, “any day now” the vet had said when he checked her out on Tuesday. And now it’s _happening_. “Oh my god.”

“I _know_.”

“Did you call Steven?”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s on his way.”

“Good.” He settles back in his seat, gripping the door handle when Slater takes a turn too fast. “This is good.”

They get to the stable and rush inside to the very end stall. Nosey’s laying down on her side and Slater grabs for Braydon’s hand, squeezing. They’d both read the book Steven had given them and Braydon had taken to looking up youtube videos but nothing really prepared them for the real thing.

Nosey groans and Slater grips tighter.

“It’s okay,” Braydon comforts.

“Yeah.”

Nosey shifts and vocalizes again but then there’s a hoof. An actual baby horse hoof coming into the world. They both watch in silent awe as another hoof and a nose appear. Braydon holds his breath until the shoulders are free and feels Slater’s grip slacken a bit. Everything’s going to be fine.

Steven had said the shoulders were the worst bit.

They both turn toward the sound of another set of tires rolling to a stop just outside the barn. “I got it,” Braydon says, letting go of Slater’s hand to go greet Steven.

“How is she?” he asks, pulling his kit out of the passenger seat.

“The shoulders just passed.”

Steven smiles, following Braydon inside. “That’s great news.”

The three of them shuffle outside of the stall until the colt is fully born and Nosey’s started to clean him off. Steven does a quick check of vitals before declaring mom and baby perfectly healthy.

“Congratulations, guys.”

Slater nearly jumps into Braydon’s arms, pulling him down for a kiss with his hands around his neck. “I can’t believe...I mean, I’ve seen cows and stuff but never...I mean, wow, right? We just watched a _colt_ come into the world.”

It was one of the most unexpectedly amazing things Braydon’s ever experienced. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

//

Slater’s still beaming when they burst back through the screen door of the house, hands and arms wet from cleaning up with the hose outside.

“That was amazing,” he says, grinning up at Braydon with bright eyes. “I’m a granddad!”

Braydon laughs, cupping Slater’s jaw in both his hands and fitting their lips together. “I love you so much.”

“Sometimes,” Slater says, pressing their foreheads together. “I still can’t believe you came back to me.”

“Always gonna come back.”

He grabs Slater’s wrist and drags him down the hall, past the flower print wallpaper and the house phone and the old radio Slater still sings to sometimes. He pulls him past the tiny bathroom that’s still too small for the both of them to brush their teeth at the same time, past the guest room and the quilt Braydon still wraps himself up in some nights. He steps over the part of the floor that squeaks right in front of their bedroom, their bedroom with all their things and clothes and Braydon’s expensive down-stuffed pillow he couldn’t give up when he moved.

Braydon’s back hits the mattress and Slater’s there, knees bracketing his hips and arms locked on either side of his ears. He lets Slater look, scan his face for some kind of affirmation, before he brushes at the hair along Braydon’s temple and leans down for a kiss, slow and sweet like honey.

“I love you.”

Even now, those words are still a punch to Braydon’s gut. He drags his palms up under Slater’s shirt, bunching it around his shoulders as Slater leans down for another kiss. Braydon brushes his fingers along the notches of Slater’s spine and down into the curve of his back, tugging him so their hips align. He gasps into Slater’s mouth at the pressure, at having Slater this close.   

Even now, it’s all so much more than he thought he’d get to have.

Slater sits back and pulls off his shirt, undoes his belt buckle and the button of his jeans. Braydon does the same, falling back to the bed so Slater can run his hands along the newly exposed skin, follow his touch with soft presses of his lips.

He lifts his hips when Slater tugs at his jeans, barely has time to think before Slater’s settled back on the bed, lips mapping out the shape of Braydon’s jaw, his teeth set gently against Braydon’s neck. Slater twists his fingers between Braydon’s, pulling their joined hands around his back. He places Braydon's palm flat, brushing his fingertips lightly over Braydon's hand when he lets go, inviting him to bring their bodies closer together.

Braydon doesn't need to be asked twice.

Braydon pulls Slater's body up against his, threading his free hand into those perfect, messy curls, tilting his head into another kiss.  Slater doesn't linger in the kiss, instead turning to trail a line of soft bites up his jawline. Braydon tilts his head away, wanting to give Slater easier access.

He lets his hands slip down Slater's torso, cupping his ass. He squeezes slightly when he pulls their hips together again and then goosebumps rise all over his body when Slater's surprised exhale breezes behind his ear, uses that moment to flip them so that Slater is under him.

"Mmm, I think I like this better," Braydon mutters.

He presses his lips to Slater's and then in a trail of slow, wet kisses down to Slater's collarbone. He sucks lightly, just enough to bring a little color to the surface, but nothing that will stick around. He admires his work for a second, watches it fade before Slater gets impatient and squeezes his hips to get his attention.

"I think _I_ would like this better if you did a little more than look at me," Slater complains, though he's smiling.

"Oh, demandy," Braydon teases, leaning back in. "Wouldn't want you any other way," he growls, swallowing the sound that Slater makes.

Braydon kisses Slater deeply, thinking about how grateful he is every day that his car inexplicably broke down in the exact place that it did, that Slater was the sort to stop and help a stranger, that he had relented at a display of aggressive friendliness.

"Hey, stop that," Slater laughs, squirming away from a light brush of his fingers.

"No rules in the bed," Braydon says. Slater's smile is so soft and beautiful as Braydon traces his lips with his fingertips.

“C’mon,” Slater whines, nipping at a finger.

Braydon grabs for Slater's hand a moment later, pulling it into the small space between them. Their hands tangle together, their shared grip _just_ on the right side of too tight. They move together, caught up in the sensations and feelings bubbling up and over, heads pressed together and breaths shared, bodies hot and sweat-drenched.

"You're so gorgeous like this," Braydon breathes, and he is. His skin is flushed, almost crimson in the lengthening rays of the late day sun. His curls are wet, plastered to his forehead. And the way that he's biting on his bottom lip, obviously trying to hold on, to prolong the pleasure for just a few moments longer is helping push Braydon towards the edge as well.

"You don't have to hold on for me." His words seem to run through Slater in a visible shudder and he's spilling between them, coming with a gasp that sends Braydon over with him.

//

Braydon wakes up sprawled across the bed, head barely on a pillow and leg slung over Slater’s thigh. He watches Slater’s chest rise and fall, listens to the little puff of air he exhales and the softest rumbling snore when he breathes in.

He rolls over as fast as he dares, trying not to make too much noise as he gets to his feet, pulls on a pair of boxers, tiptoes out of the bedroom and down the hall to the cabinet the old radio sits on. He pulls the third drawer out and sifts through the old grocery lists and post-it notes for the plain manila envelope he hid there weeks ago.

He lifts the little prongs and pulls out the stack of papers - price estimates, square footage, zoning permits, bank statements. It’s all there, all they have to do is sign on the dotted line.

“What’re you doing?”

Braydon turns, smiling at Slater’s sleepy face and wild curls. “Couldn’t even put on pants?”

“Come back to bed,” he whines.

“Go put on some clothes, I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.” He says it gently, trying not to set off any alarm bells. “And then we can go back to bed.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

Slater joins him at the little dining table in a pair of Braydon’s sweats and a faded Flyers shirt (a mistake purchase during his short stint in Philadelphia).

Braydon slides the packet across to him. “Open it.”

He watches as Slater does it, flipping through the first few pages and then a few more, taking a big chunk of pages and letting them fan out. “Oh my god.”

“It’s twenty-six acres,” he explains. “So that’d put the farm at 255 acres total.”

“It’s a west-facing lake,” Slater says, stunned.

“Yes it is. Came up for sale about a month ago. I’ve been talking to the realtor for a few weeks. He thinks the sellers will accept the offer.”

“It’s not a cheap west-facing lake.”

Braydon smiles. “You know I’m good for it.”

“I...I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

Slater sighs, righting all the pages and stuffing them back into the envelope, closing the flap and flattening the prongs. He traces the edge of it, dragging his fingertip around the corners. “We’ll have to get a bench. A nice one. And maybe a swing, something comfy to sit in. Sunsets take a while sometimes.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Slater’s smile is soft and just a little crooked. “I love you.”

“Is that a yes? Cause I need to know you’re not going to resent the lake if I buy i--.”

Slater cuts him off with a kiss, a little tongue and a little bite, settling onto his lap. “Yes, you idiot. Of course I want your lake. I want your lake and I want you. Yes.” He kisses him. “Yes.” And again. “Yes.”

Braydon drags his fingers through Slater’s hair, tugging a little at the strands by his neck. “I’ll let the agent know on Monday.”

“Good. Now c’mon, you promised me bed.” He gets up and shuffles off back down the hall, yawning on his way.

Braydon doesn’t hesitate to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Bish and Boyler were still on the team when we wrote this and it felt too sad to change it :(


End file.
